


Dark Happenings

by allcatsareblackinthedark



Series: Intuition [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Hobbit Culture, Extraordinary!Bilbo, F/M, Hobbit Culture, Minor Violence, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allcatsareblackinthedark/pseuds/allcatsareblackinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although Intuitions helped prepare for the Fell Winter, they could not stop it entirely.</p><p>Hobbits learn this firsthand as they leave their homes and never return.</p><p>Even knowing this, Bilbo pushes out into the winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Happenings

There were very, very few times that a hobbit might not listen to their Intuition. After all, it was what guided them through the majority of their decisions in nearly all matters (And it was sometimes an easy excuse to claim that your Intuition made you do it, although the faunts that tried it were still given an earful by better knowing mothers.)

That is not to say that they never disobeyed, but it was rather contrary to their nature to do so. Most hobbits were content with always obeying, after all, why go against the best aspect of yourself (for that’s what many considered their gift to be).

One such example of disobedience could be seen during the long, cold, winter of the Fell Winter. In the months leading up, several hobbits felt the need to begin stockpiling. They filled their larders with long lasting cheeses, hard breads, preserves and jellies, and the like. Their extra rooms were filled to brim with split logs and kindling, and extra quilts were aired out and placed at standby.

Despite these measures, most were sure it was just a longer winter, perhaps a bit colder. The Shire was known to be temperate and mild, even the winters, which were rather tame. When the first bellows of cruel winter blew into the Shire a month early, it was simply an early winter, of course. It would blow a bit of snow around and then it would warm up and melt away, you’ll see, they said. Simply a little bit of a start up, the true winter would roll about in its usual time.

They were lying through their teeth, of course. They all could feel their Intuition niggling at the backs of their minds and coiling in the pit of their stomachs. They knew it would not be so, but it had never been seen before, and why should it be so now?

The blowing winds and baying howls of winter did not cease or melt. The promised last throws of summer were long gone and the cold, cruel grips of frost had grabbed the Shire by its buttons. The snow piled itself against cozy smials until they were barely visible in the blank slate of the snow, just merely a divot in the cold land. The supplies the more attuned had stocked had laid them well for a time. The extra firewood was a boon and what quilts that had been packed away, with sachets of lavender and lemongrass tucked in, were now taken out and wrapped around shivering fauntlings.

The rivers slowed and slushed with sheets of ice meandering down their paths. It was more unexpected, however, when the Brandywine River froze over entirely. With their chiefest border now immobile, the more nefarious found passage far easier. The wolves began to cross the river and into the heart of the Shire.

These wolves were large, easily ten hands tall and would have been nearly the size wide if the winter had not been as hard on them. The prey had long since ran away and the Old Forest and the lands north had been barren of food for quite a time, and the wolves that entered the Shire were mangy, angry, hungry things. They had little care if their meal was sheep or a young hobbit caught unaware. Deep in the cold, cold night, the hobbits of the Shire heard the low, bellowing call of the Horn of Buckland and it was then that they knew that the Shire was under attack.

By that time, the smials were quickly running out of resources. Firewood was running low and most had taken to huddling around the kitchen stove instead of heating the whole smial. Food had dwindled too and several families had found that they had not rationed well enough and ran out. Several hobbits ventured out of their homes and into the cold winter air in search of food, or even medicine, as winter will always bring about a sickness.

Not all hobbits who left returned.

Belladonna Baggins was particularly aware of this. Her husband Bungo was growing sicker as the days passed. He had been the one taking stock of their stores and rationing them, and it was not until far later that his wife figured out that he had been skimping on his meals or forgoing them entirely so she and their son Bilbo could eat. The sickness held Bungo like a vice and was not letting him go and Belladonna had finally made the decision to go south to her sister’s smial, in hopes that they had something to spare.

Spurred on by his father’s health and his mother’s worry, Bilbo took it upon himself and left in the quiet twilight to seek aide himself. Now, as you understand, Bilbo was but twenty one at this time, yet a decade from his majority. It was indeed a fool’s journey, and one made by a faunt.

Bilbo did not see it that way entirely. He knew it was a silly notion, that he would be able to make it better than his full-grown and far more worldly mother, but he did not wish to risk either of his parents, from sickness or the wolves that scratched at their doorstep. So, he left with his mother’s kitchen knife in hand, wrapped in every scarf and coat he could manage well enough, and with Intuition curled in his breast like a heavy warning.

He had been able to make it to his aunt’s smial before dark and they had a bare little to spare. They begged him not to leave, but he was loathe to stay when his father was barely clinging on at home. He trudged back into the snow with a packet of medicinal herbs held close to his chest in his shirt.

He could almost see the twinkling light of the smial in the distance, barely distinguishable in the dark, but home to him. He was just a touch away. He was nearly to the base of the hill when he heard the snarling start behind him. The bright flashing eyes of several wolves were behind him and he desperately wanted to pretend that it was just tricks of the fading light, but his instincts knew, and he knew, that it was not. He held the carving knife out from his body, clasped in a mittened, shaking fist. He faced the eyes and flashing teeth with steel in his eyes and a fire in the depth of his belly. He slashed fiercely at approaching muzzles and made vague stabbing motions.

When the first one lunged, he managed to clip it in the face, the force of the wolf nearly knocking the knife out of his hand. He began to shuffle backwards in the deep snow, carefully watching the large shapes coming closer and closer. They followed him every step of the way up, cautious but powerful, far more so than he. He could almost feel the warmth of his home behind him, and as another wolf propelled itself towards him, he wondered for half a moment if he would ever make it, truly.

He sliced at it again viciously and was rewarded with a good streak of blood splattering against the snow and a whining yelp. They didn’t hesitate now, lunging at him quickly, and he attempted to deflect them as best as he could. They were only the slightest bit smaller than he and they were many. The little carving knife was meant for cutting butchered meat, not ripping through fur and flesh, but it was holding for the moment.

With a particularly vicious lunge, one of the wolves caught his arm with a deep slash. Bilbo’s knife fell to the ground and he scrambled to pick it up, barely seeing the wolf lunging again for the killing blow. He did, however, hear the mighty clang of a cast iron skillet lodging in its skull.

“Bilbo!” His mother screamed. She swung the skillet against at another advancing wolf and yelled for him to run into the house before they both set off at a dead run for the rounded door. They only barely made it to the door and Belladonna had to smash a few more wolven feet that tried to jam into their door before he could shut it and latch it. They piled all the furniture in the entryway before the door as it heaved against the weight of several wolves throwing themselves against it.

They waited for the slamming bodies to lose interest and finally leave. It took far longer than they would have liked. Bungo was one of the precious few that recovered from the sickness that year, thanks to the herbs Bilbo had been able to procure. 

In a matter of weeks, the Rangers of the North made it to the Shire and began to kill and chase away the wolves. The wind slowed its terrible blowing and the snow stopped falling as heavily, and eventually it eased into a warm spring. The mass of snow melted quickly and much of the south of the Shire flooded terribly. 

The hobbits came from their homes to bury their dead, many found after the snows melted and others that were kept in cold cellars. The shortage of food persisted, but the Rangers and the wizard Gandalf had been able to pass out some provisions amongst the survivors. They lasted until summer. Then they lasted to autumn, with harvests not nearly as bountiful as years past but enough. They began to take hold again, like uprooted trees after a storm. 

Bungo was never the same after the Fell Winter. He was weaker and was frequently sick. He passed away several years later when a particularly nasty flu had passed through the Shire. Belladonna held on for a time afterwards, but it was readily known that she was now a shade of her former self and was Fading quickly.

She passed away the week after Bilbo came of age, most likely since now her son would be legally able to take care of himself. It was far longer than many had expected, but Belladonna was never an average hobbit.

Afterwards, Bilbo wondered that if he listened to his instincts that day, if it would have been the same. If his mother had left, would she have ever made it back to the smial? Would the wolves had cornered her too? Would his father gotten better?

For this time, however, he found that he didn’t mind that he didn’t listen to his Intuition.


End file.
